Home
by Samtastic Love
Summary: To nineteen year old Elizabeta, home is a small bar in a dusty little town in the middle of nowhere. Human AU fic.


To nineteen year old Elizabeta, home is a small bar in a dusty little town in the middle of nowhere.

It's the type of town people escape to for a fresh start, to forget their past. Where people grow up and never leave. Where the only thing smaller than the population is the number of people that pass through on a yearly basis.

Elizabeta hadn't meant to be trapped like her parents and uncle and the ones before them had been. She had intended to run, to put as much distance between herself and this town as possible. She and her childhood friend, Gilbert, had made _plans_, had saved up money and promised each other they would get out. Her Uncle Mag falling to the summer fever—and eventually dying-had screwed everything up, though, and Elizabeta had been stuck running his tavern, The Orange Bloom, and Gilbert . . . Gilbert had left on the first supply caravan heading north, not even sparing a look back lest he be sucked into their trap of a childhood home.

Not that she blames him! Not at all! Hell, she's _glad _that he had been able to get out. Elizabeta knows that being stuck in this town had been killing him, slowly and painfully. She just wishes. . .

No, enough of _that_. Wishing never got anybody anywhere. It just leads to idle minds and wasted time and aching hearts. Besides, it's nearing dusk, and a group of travelers have just rolled into town, which means profit and several more months of being able to be open for business.

She can hear the arguing come down the town's main street, which is really just a glorified dirt road, and the rowdy voices stop just outside her bar. After what sounds like a brief scuffle, a tanned man with soft green eyes and a friendly smile stumbles through the door. Quickly righting himself, he ambles over to the bar, where Elizabeta is polishing tin cups to the best of her ability, and leans on the counter, muscular arms crossed and mouth curled in a way that makes her stomach flutter. Really, it has been too long since a handsome stranger has wandered through town.

"Hello," he grins widely, his voice deep and accented, and, _oh_, does it make Elizabeta's hands shake. "I was told this is a place my friends and I can rest, yes?"

"Sure is," she answers cheerfully, smoothing the front of her worn, faded skirt to hide her hands' nervous trembling—it's been such a long time since she's spoken to someone new and _interesting_, not to mention good-looking. "You can hitch your assorted beasts of burden to the rail out front. We have pumps out back, baths are a copper coin per person. Rooms are three coppers per night. If you're wanting food, dinner's dried meat of dubious sources and bread."

Throughout her spiel, the man nods and smiles, and at the end, thanks her, and then walks out of the door with a tip of his hat.

Within minutes, he returns, along with a tumble of men, all loudly arguing. At the front of the pack is a short man—more of a boy, really—who slaps down a silver piece onto the counter in front of Elizabeta and stands, scowling, as she cuts into it to make sure it is genuine.

Giving the boy a pleasant smile, she declares, "I hope your stay is pleasant," and slips the coin into the flat metal container hiding beneath her apron.

Frowning a bit less fiercely, the boy nods and goes to his companions, smacking the smiling man on the head for seemingly no reason.

While her guests bathe at the pump out back, Elizabeta busies herself with setting out her finest cutlery, which means the cleanest tin plates and glass cups she has on hand, and retrieving a bottle of the good whiskey from beneath the counter She hopes that they see that she's really pulling out all the stops for them and that they tip generously. Tips are always nice.

By the time the sun is low on the horizon and the regulars have begun trickling in, the travelers have already devoured their meager meal and gone up to their rooms with their belongings.

Elizabeta is a bit disappointed that none of them have stayed downstairs to talk. Living on the edge of where desert meets forest means that newcomers are few and far between, and, with supply caravans stopping by only thrice a year, news is scarce. Those scant tidbits of information may be enough for the townsfolk, but Elizabeta wants _more_, and if she mainly wants to ask if a pale, obnoxious fool of a man on a search for his brothers has been see, well, who'd blame her?

After watching her regulars slowly drink themselves into stupors for what seems like ages, heavy boots stomp down the worn stairs, accompanied by four voices all trying to talk over one another.

The handsome man from before—Elizabeta has learned he's taken, by snapped word of the surly boy—and his young companion walk over to a table in the corner and seat themselves on it. The older carries an oddly shaped block of wood with a rectangular extension on one end, which seems to be hollow. The other two men approach Elizabeta, one all inviting smiles and golden hair and the other nothing but stiff shoulders and tired eyes.

Once she has convinced the flirting man that no, she is most certainly _not interested_, and he leaves her after she withdraws her cast-iron skillet from beneath the counter, the weary stranger turns to her and asks if she has any good whiskey, not that _rot_ that's usually served.

She pours him a large measure of bourbon as he slides a bronze piece over to her. He sips at the amber liquid and spins around on his barstool to watch his friends quarrel over something Elizabeta can't quite catch.

"What are they _doing_?" She laughs and shakes her head when the boy, red-faced and gesturing wildly, smacks the older man on the back of his head.

The man turns slowly to face her and blinks at her, and in the long silence that ensues, she wonders if maybe he's a little dim.

"They're gonna perform," he finally replies.

"Perform what?"

He scrutinizes her with pitying eyes that make her hackles rise and then turns back to his friends. "Yeah, guess that people in these parts would never have seen a live band," he mutters, and she guesses that he didn't intend for her to hear because he jumps when she acidly asks, "And what does 'people in these parts' supposed to mean?"

Snorting, he gives her a _look_, one that Elizabeta's been on the receiving end of too many times, usually from her late Uncle Mag. "You tell me," he drawls, then gulps down his liquor and holds out the glass for a refill.

Elizabeta would give him what for, but the two in the corner have finally come to some sort of agreement, and the handsome man happily announces that they will be playing tunes for the patron's enjoyment.

"What are they-" is all that Elizabeta can get out before her mouth slackens in astonishment. The handsome man is making _music_ with that strange box, and it's possibly one of the most beautiful things she's ever heard. Then the boy begins singing a sad, slow song about building a wall, and it's almost enough to bring the girl to tears.

"Amazing, isn't it?" A corner of the weary man's mouth twitches up into a wistful smile. He gives a nod to the dusty machine deserted on a shelf behind the bar counter. "Nothing like gramophones, huh?"

He glances at the girl, who is absolutely entranced by his friends, and then, gazing down into the bourbon's amber depths, sighs, "I remember when bands were as common as dirt. There was at least one amateur band in every tiny town and crowded city. Those were the days . . ."

"How?" Elizabeta whispers because she doesn't want to miss this. Instruments are as rare as jewels, owned exclusively by the rich and powerful, and people who could actually _play_ them, who could actually string a melody together? Unheard of in these parts.

"The kid's grandfather taught Antonio how to play the guitar. Who would've thought the numbskull could do something like _that_?" Again wearing that pensive half-smile, the man looks at her over the rim of his glass. "You remind me a lot of my little sister. You've got the same spirit."

Oddly flattered and more than a little touched—she's always been a softy—Elizabeta, beaming, extends a hand and offers her name. He takes it, replying, "Willem."

When the next song starts, a ballad about a person returning home to his mother, Elizabeta says, "I had a friend who could play something called a _flute_, I think? His Uncle Fritz left it to him when he died. And when I say play, I mean a bunch of notes that meshed together in what _he_ called a harmony. Sounded like a mess to me, and I told him that every time." She doesn't know why she said that, doesn't know why she's letting a bit of her heart spill out to this man, but she does it anyway.

Willem gives her a sympathizing look. "What happened to him?"

She shrugs. "He left a few years ago. He went looking for his brothers and never came back . . . Wish I had gone with him." She can't hide the melancholy note in her voice, the downturn of her mouth, and Willem 'hmms'.

"So why don't you go after him?"

Sucking in a sharp breath, Elizabeta shakes her head violently. "No way in hell! That would swell up his ego even larger than it already is if he finds out _I_ came running after _him_. Besides, I've gotta look after the bar, my uncle left it to me and I can't just _abandon_ it. And I can't leave here, where would I go? This is where I grew up, where my family has lived and died for generations! I don't have anywhere else to _go_." If the last part is said a little hollowly, well, Elizabeta would deny all accusations.

The barrage of words ends just as quickly as it began, and she can feel embarrassment make itself know by the pink flush she knows is creeping up her neck into her face. She takes a moment to just _breathe_ and states, much calmer, "I can't leave this place."

"Okay then." Willem tips the last of the liquor into his mouth and nudges a bronze coin towards Elizabeta's shaking hands. "Just so you know, my friends and I do a lot of traveling. I'm sure we'd run across your friend eventually. If you're up to it, in the morning you can give me a letter for him and his description." He stands and strides to the stairs, heels clicking on the wooden floorboards.

Elizabeta stands there at the bar, mechanically polishing the empty abandoned glass. His words echo in her head and make her heart throb. Ever since Gilbert vanished on the horizon with a simple wave goodbye, all plans of leaving had dissolved with her only friend, had broken right along with her heart.

Hours pass, the tavern empties, and Elizabeta retires to bed, still turning Willem's offer over and over in her head.

She had already given up hope of ever seeing or hearing from Gilbert again. What if she ends up waiting for an answer that would never come? Elizabeta doesn't think she could bear another broken heart.

Is it truly worth the risk?

* * *

Willem sighs from his perch on his dust-colored mare and watches his brainless friends moan about the hangovers they had brought upon themselves. The sight of the kid chewing them out and making their headaches even worse cheers him up, though. Good old Lovino, he could always be counted on to make a miserable situation even worse.

He glances behind him at the front door of the bar. The girl had looked far too young to have that beaten-down posture and tired smile, to have weary resignation in the slump of the shoulders. If he hadn't taken up Antonio's offer to join his merry bounty hunters, he imagines his sister would be living a life similar to that girl's.

"Saddle up," he shouts, just loud enough to make Antonio and Francis wince. "Quit your bitching, let's-"

"Wait!" A strong, feminine voice calls, and the girl comes running out of her tavern, leather bag bouncing against her hip and brown hair swinging in tandem to her faded skirt.

Eying the bag, he sighs, "I hope that's a gift for the music from last night and not what I think it is."

Elizabeta lifts her chin and firms her mouth. "A letter isn't enough. I'm coming with you so that if- _when_ I find him, I can beat some sense into his thick skull." Her knuckles are white around the strap of her bag, and her breaths come in sharp bursts, but her face shows only determination.

Shrugging, he retorts, "If you can keep up and not be a burden, I'm fine with it."

Francis, now on his own grey steed, turns to Willem and raises a brow. "My friend," he smirks, "were you not the one that put your foot down on bringing members of the fairer sex on our trips?"

Willem meets the blonde's eyes and responds calmly, "You didn't see me making a fuss when you decided to adopt a kid when conditions were _not ideal_ for us to take care of a sickly boy. Let me have this one."

Heaving that melodramatic sigh he has perfected over who knows how many years, Francis shrugs and spins around to face the girl. "I pray that you do not expect one of us to give up his horse for you. As pretty as you are, blistered feet are not worth seeing happiness grace those gorgeous green eyes."

"I traded my tavern for a mare earlier this morning. She's not in her prime anymore, but she's dependable and good-natured."

Lovino snorts derisively, little bastard that he is. "When you fall behind and starve to death in the forest, don't blame us."

"You wouldn't really leave a young lady to brave the dangers of the wilderness by herself, would you?" She arches a brow, smile saccharine, and there it is, that spark that reminds Willem so much of his kid sister.

The other three exchange glances, Francis faintly amused, Antonio obliviously happy, and Lovino typically irritated. Finally, Francis pipes up and tells her they'll be waiting at the edge of town before wheeling his horse around and urging his horse into a canter.

Willem lingers long enough to watch the girl give her home, the only home she's ever known, one last sorrowful glance. Her hand reaches up to brush the orange flower hair clip, a near replica to the bloom painted on the bar's sign, above an ear. Leveling her shoulders, she marches off—to retrieve that mare, Willem supposes—and he gives the reins a flick, nudging the mount in the direction his friends had taken.

* * *

To nineteen year old Elizabeta, home had always been a small bar in a dusty little town in the middle of nowhere. Now's she's cut herself loose, dependent on the skills of three strangers and one maybe friend, and her trusty cast-iron skillet.

She doesn't know where she's going, doesn't know if she'll ever find her friend, but one thing is for certain: she is out of that place, and she doesn't plan on ever coming back.

* * *

This was heavily influenced by the soundtrack to Bastion (I've never played the vidoe game, but it sounds _amazing_!) The songs vaguely mentioned are "Build That Wall" and "Mother, I'm Here."

I'm. . . I'm not sure how Gilbert got in there. He was only supposed to be briefly mentioned, but then BAM, he's a major part of the story. Damn that awesome alibno. . .

Thank you for reading and please review!


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